


Arrow

by orphan_account



Series: Dog Ownership for Reasonably Intelligent People [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Animal Abuse, Dog Fighting, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, dog rescue, dog!fic, pet adoption, pit bulls are adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Clint is halfway up to the scaffolding when he hears it, a faint whimper and the rustle of shifting plastic. He looks down and freezes.</p>
<p>One of the losing dogs, a brindled Pit Bull, is trying to crawl out from under the pile of bodies. His front paws scrabble for purchase on the plastic sheet and he’s whining and crying as he inches forward. "</p>
<p>EDIT: The last chapter has been revised and reposted, see inside for more notes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Love at First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for descriptions of animal abuse related to illegal dog fighting. Possible warnings for self esteem issues in later chapters. 
> 
> I am of the opinion that there is a Special Level of Hell reserved for people who abuse animals. I'm also one of those people who can't watch shows like Pit Boss and Animal Cops because the very concept of hurting and neglecting a pet like that fills me with the burning desire to take a baseball bat to someone's head. So I wrote this. I used the ASPCA's FAQs on rescuing fight dogs for most of my information, and any mistakes are mine alone.
> 
> EDIT: I fixed a few things in this first chapter: just some past/present tense issues and reworded a couple sentences. Hopefully that makes the reading a bit more enjoyable!

Clint is performing recon on the warehouse, systematically mapping the building, locating enemy operatives and noting weapons caches as he ghosts along through the shadows. He knows, intellectually, that this particular gang is also involved in dog fighting, had read it in the last intelligence report before infiltrating the warehouse. He does not expected to find any evidence of it at this location. So when he stumbles across the kennels and the blood stained fighting ring, he is unprepared for what he sees.  
  
Clint has seen, and caused, no small amount of blood, death and destruction. Not all of it in the name of SHIELD, either. But something about this scene hits him harder than all of that combined. He can harden himself against the cruelty done by humans to other humans, but this? This is something else.  
  
He can tell the winning dogs from the losers easily. The winning dogs are in their kennels, tearing into their dinners of raw beef mixed with dry kibble. The losers are stacked in a pile on top of a sheet of plastic in the corner. Their sad, broken bodies laying like so much trash waiting to be dumped makes him sick to his stomach. He breaths in through his mouth, trying to ignore the scent of blood that clings to his nose and puts a hand to his comm to relay his findings to Phil and the waiting strike team.  
  
He finishes his report, and knows that his voice isn’t as calm and collected as he’d like. He listens to Coulson rattle off a string of orders to the strike team but doesn’t really hear the words, focusing only on the steady, even cadence of his voice.  
  
“Barton?”  
  
The sound of his name jerks him back to himself. “Yeah, boss?” he asks, moving towards the stairwell up to the scaffolding over the fighting ring. He’s supposed to clear out before the strike team makes their move. He has to be in position over the docks with his bow to take down the runners. He’s supposed to aim for non-lethal shots, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to follow that particular order.  
  
“Talk to me,” Coulson says. His voice is cool and dispassionate, but there is concern lacing his tone that no one else would hear.  
  
Clint starts climbing. “I’m fine, boss,” he lies. “I can do this.” That part is true.  
  
“Roger that.” Phil still sounds worried, but he trusts Clint’s judgement.  
  
Clint is halfway up to the scaffolding when he hears it: a faint whimper and the rustle of shifting plastic. He looks down and freezes.  
  
One of the losing dogs, a brindled Pit Bull, is trying to crawl out from under the pile of bodies. His front paws scrabble for purchase on the plastic sheet and he’s whining and crying as he inches forward.  
  
Clint doesn’t think, because if he does he’ll end up with a long list of reasons to leave the dog where he is and get back to work. He moves fast, jumping down to the floor and shoving the pile of carcasses away. The bodies are still warm and limp under his hands and he has to choke downt the bile that rises in his throat.  
  
The dog whines up at him and Clint doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything so heartbreaking. Big brown eyes, pleading, with one tattered ear dripping blood down the side of his brick-shaped head, his left leg has been wrenched out of joint, and bloody patches mottle his fur where the skin has been torn away by another dog. His tail is crooked in two places and thumps once against the ground in a pathetic attempt at a wag. Clint holds out his hand and the dog doesn’t hesitate before licking the offered fingers, whining and whimpering the whole time.  
  
Clint has three minutes to get to his perch before the strike team moves. He works quickly, using his KA-Bar to cut a wide strip of plastic and wraps it around the dog like a sling, carefully folding the dislocated leg close to his body, murmuring apologies as the dog growls at the touch and snaps at his hand.  
  
“Sorry, sweetie, I know it hurts but just bear with me, ok? I’ll get you out of here and we’ll get you fixed up and you’ll be just fine.” He moves as quickly and as carefully as he can, slinging the 70 lb. dog onto his back like a baby. The dog whimpers and whines, but thankfully doesn’t snap or struggle.  
  
Clint moves as fast as he can with his new burden, trying hard not to jostle the dog, and flinches every time the dog whimpers when he fails. He gets to his perch with seconds to spare, laying the dog on the roof at his side and absently stroking his head. He ignores the blood that clings to his fingers and the soft whimper of protest when he moves away. His quiver and bow are waiting for him, tucked under the recess of the roof top’s ledge. He snaps the bow open and nocks an arrow as he crouches down into position. The dog is panting quietly behind him, licking at what wounds he can reach.  
  
“In position,” he says into the comm.  
  
“Strike Team, go on my mark," Coulson says. "Mark."  
  
Clint watches the black figures of the SHIELD operatives move quickly into the building. The next twenty minutes are a haze of smoke, gunfire, shouts, and the soft twang of loosed arrows. Clint pats himself on the back for restraining himself so well. None of his shots were lethal, but they are painful and permanent. None of the runners he hit will be walking correctly in the foreseeable future. He stays in position and watches for threats while the SHIELD teams moves to round up their prisoners and secure the area.  
  
“Hawkeye, we’re clear,” Coulson says once the last prisoner has been loaded onto the transport.  
  
“Roger that. I’m coming in.”  
  
He collapses the bow and hangs his quiver over his chest before moving back to the dog. The dog looks up at him and wags his tail with a soft whine, licking at his hand when Clint kneels beside him.  
  
“One more time, pup, I promise,” he says, scratching the dog’s chin. The animal stretches his head up and back, baring his throat to Clint’s petting, crooked tail thwapping against the plastic sling.  
  
Clint catches a glimpse of white on the dog’s chest and leans over for a closer look. He bites back a laugh. There’s a white spot on the dog’s broad chest in the distinct shape of an arrow head.  
  
“Oh yeah,” he says with a smile, lifting the dog onto his back. “Definitely keeping you.”  
  
***  
Once on the ground, Clint shifts his burden so his quiver is on his back and the dog is in his arms, handing the make-shift plastic sling over to a crime scene tech as he heads over to Phil. He ignores the raised eyebrows of the other SHIELD agents, murmuring reassurances to the bundle of fur in his arms.  
  
Phil is the King of Inscrutable Looks, and Clint feels a brief jolt of panic when he catches sight of his partner’s face and realizes that Phil may not want a dog. He mentally starts making a list of arguments in his head as he approaches and steels himself for a fight. Arrow is his dog and he’s more than willing to fight Phil on it. He’ll move back to his old apartment if he has to. He doesn’t want to lose Phil, but Arrow is important in ways Clint can’t even begin to articulate, even to himself.  
  
When Phil spots Clint and his new buddy, all he does is raise an eyebrow and points to the newly arrived ASPCA van. “There’s a vet with them. We’ll discuss this later.”  
  
Clint nods, tense and relieved at the same time. This is neither the time nor the place to get into it, and Arrow needs treatment before anything else.  
  
He carries the dog over to the waiting animal control officers and reluctantly settles him in one of the crates in the back of the van.  
  
“When can I get him back?” he asks the veterinary technician, Hamish according to her name tag, as she does a cursory exam of the damage. She looks up at him with surprise, then something like pity.  
  
“You might not be able too,” she says, carefully.  
  
Ice shoots through his limbs and Clint stares at her with blank cold eyes. She flinches and starts to explain.  
  
“He’s pretty bad off,” she says. “Some of the bites look infected and even if he recovers, he has to be evaluated for aggression and fear responses before we can even think of placing him in a home. Even then, he could still develop aggressive tendencies in the future.”  
  
Arrow is staring at Clint, one good ear back and whining as the crate is latched shut. Clint’s first instinct is to snatch the dog away, has even started forward to push the tech aside when a firm hand settles on his shoulder, holding him back.  
  
Clint doesn’t look at Phil, keeping his gaze riveted on Arrow. Phil’s voice is as calm and reasonable as ever, and it grates on Clint’s nerves. He doesn’t want to be reasonable or rational about this, he wants his damn dog back.  
  
“Can you give us a timeline for his treatment?” Phil asks the tech. She glances between them for a moment before answering.  
  
“A week or more,” she says. “He’ll need therapy for the leg, and even after that he’ll probably walk with a limp for the rest of his life. After he’s recovered enough, we’ll have a behaviorist work with him to check his temperament. If he passes, he’ll start rehabilitation training.”  
  
“Can he be fostered out during training?” Phil asks.  
  
“Uh, I don’t...I’m not sure,” she stutters. “I don’t think you understand how much work it’ll take, if he’s even eligible. Fighting dogs aren’t like normal dogs. He has to be monitored at all times, and even if he’s fine with humans he could still attack other dogs without provocation.”  
  
Clint doesn’t even have to look to know that Phil is giving her his blandest, most unreadable look that has made even Assistant Director Hill squirm. He keeps a hand on Clint’s shoulder and pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to the tech.  
  
“Keep me apprised of . . .,” he glances at Clint with a questioning eyebrow.  
  
“Arrow,” Clint supplies. He hopes he doesn’t sound as choked up as he feels.  
  
“Of Arrow’s condition. And I’ll need to speak with your superior.”  
  
“Yes, sir,” the tech says, clearly against her will if the stunned expression on her face is anything to go by. Clint can almost see her resisting the urge to salute. “Dr. Bishop should be back any minute now. I’ll just make a note on . . . Arrow’s chart.”  
  
Phil nods and gives her a polite, neutral smile. “Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Hamish.”  
  
“No problem,” is the faint reply. Clint brushes his fingers over Arrow’s muzzle through the bars of the crate and tries not to flinch as the dog starts to whine when he turns away. Phil’s hand on his shoulder guides him back to the waiting SHIELD van.  
  
“Thanks, Phil,” he murmurs, just loud enough for him to hear. He wants desperately to drag the older man into a dark corner and kiss the hell out of him, but knows he can’t. Not at work. It’ll have to wait until they get home.  
  
Phil inclines his head with a knowing look and pushes Clint towards the transport. “Get back to base,” he says. “I have a few loose ends to tie up here, and I’ll meet you in my office for debrief.”  
  
Clint wants to point out the obvious innuendo but refrains. Phil is very strict about keeping their relationship out of the office. Instead he nods and snaps off an exaggerated salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” He climbs into the van with the rest of the strike team and tries not to think about big brown eyes and blood smeared brindled fur on the ride back to base.


	2. Damaged Goods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is angst, some talking, and a bit of soul searching. No Arrow in this chapter, but he's certainly discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the self-esteem issues I mentioned in the last chapter, but not too bad. Some discussion of euthanasia in a hypothetical context, but that's the worst of it. 
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone who left kudos and comments on the last chapter! I'm glad people are liking this and I'll do my best to finish the next part as fast as I can.

Apparently when Phil said he had “loose ends” to tie up at the scene, he meant tracking down and very calmly and quietly convincing the veterinarian in charge of the rescued dogs that any and all information about Arrow’s treatment and progress were to be passed on to himself. After extracting this promise (in writing, and witnessed by two volunteers) Phil returned to base to write up his reports on the operation.   
  
Clint is waiting for him in his office, freshly showered and dressed in a clean uniform, lounging on Phil’s overstuffed, brown sofa. He looks up when Phil enters the room and raises an eyebrow at the sheet of yellow paper that Phil drops on his chest on his way to his desk. He unfolds the piece of paper and reads it. There are two names, Dr. Regina Bishop and Hank Ferris, and two phone numbers with New York area codes. He looks at Phil, questioning.   
  
“Dr. Bishop is the one overseeing the treatment of the dogs they rescued today,” Phil says, his attention on the papers in front of him. “Mr. Ferris is the coordinator of the ASPCA’s foster care and adoption programs.”  
  
Clint is on his feet and across the room in a matter of seconds. He grabs Phil by his tie and hauls him up for a bruising kiss that is enthusiastically returned. A pressing need to breath is the only reason Clint backs off. He stares at Phil as though he’s never seen him before.   
  
“Thank you,” he says. The words aren’t enough to truly convey just how grateful he is, how much this means to him, but Phil seems to understand anyway. He leans over his desk for a quick kiss before settling back down in his chair. Clint returns to the sofa to begin writing up his after action report.   
  
***  
  
“I wasn’t sure you’d go for it,” Clint confesses later that night. “Adopting Arrow.” His voice is hoarse and breathless as Phil uses a wet cloth to wipe away the come splattered across his stomach.   
  
Phil tosses the cloth into the wash basket at the foot of the bed and settles in to spoon against Clint’s back. He drapes an arm over the younger man’s waist to hold him close and buries his nose in the soft hair of Clint’s nape.   
  
“He’s important to you,” he murmurs. “That’s reason enough.”  
  
“He’ll be a lot of work,” Clint says. He wills himself to shut up but can’t seem to stop talking. “He may not even pass their tests. He might not survive the week. You heard the lady, he’s got infected injuries and even if he does--.”  
  
“Clint.” Phil’s stern tone cuts him off. “If that’s what happens, he’s in a better place now than he was before. Euthanasia in a clinic is still a more merciful end than dying slowly in a pile of carcasses.”   
  
Cold and callous as the words sound, Clint can’t help but feel some measure of relief, even as grief and hope tie his stomach into knots. Phil is right. If, God and every holy thing Clint could think of forbid, Arrow didn’t make it, at least he would die knowing some small measure of kindness. Clint desperately wants to give him a lifetime of kindness and affection, but he’s realistic enough to know that this might not happen.   
  
“Do you really want to deal with this?” With me? “I mean, I’ve never even owned a dog, and you haven’t had one since you were a kid and I know you don’t like things that mess with your schedules and --.”  
  
Clint suddenly finds himself on his back with Phil’s tongue in his mouth, effectively silencing him. He relaxes into the kiss, curling a hand around the back of Phil’s neck and returning it. The smooth slide of tongues and soft press of lips was infinitely preferable to the whirlwind of what-ifs screaming through his head.   
  
God, what had he done to deserve this? Phil is too good for him, to him. Sometimes Clint wakes in the middle of the night and expects all of it to be some kind of dream, only to look across the bed to see Phil sound asleep at his side. Good things didn’t happen to Clint Barton, or if they did, they didn’t last. But he and Phil have been together for almost three years now with no sign of impending doom to be seen. And now Arrow? Getting a dog together was like having a kid, wasn’t it? What if Phil is just going along with it because Clint wants him? What if they brought Arrow home and Phil hates him?  
  
“Clint,” Phil pulls back, just far enough for his mint-scented breath to ghost over Clint’s lips as he speaks. “Stop thinking. Our dog will be fine or he won’t. We’ll deal with it.”  
  
Clint tries and fails to bite back the small grin that crosses his face. “Our dog?” he echoes.   
  
Phil smiles back, a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Mostly yours,” he amends with a kiss to Clint’s forehead. He lounges on his side, head braced up in his palm. “But yes, ours.” A strange expression that Clint can’t read passes over his face.   
  
“I wish I’d had a camera,” he says, carding a hand through Clint’s hair. “So you could see what I saw. I knew the minute you walked up to me with him in your arms that the dog was coming home with us. It reminded me of the night you brought Natasha in.”   
  
Clint remembers that with a horrible, gut-wrenching clarity. He’d been terrified out of his mind that Phil would shoot them both on sight, or worse yet, just Natasha. That hadn’t stopped him because he knew in his bones that bringing Natasha to SHIELD was the right thing to do. Finding Natasha was like finding a piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realized was missing until it slipped into place.   
  
“You were right about her, and you’re right about Arrow. He deserves a chance.”  
Phil presses a lingering kiss to Clint’s cheek and settles down on his stomach under the covers.  
  
Clint lays awake long after Phil has drifted to sleep, staring up at the ceiling. That was it, wasn’t it? Why he’d brought Natasha in and why he wanted Arrow so desperately. He’d looked at them and seen his own reflection staring back. All three of them had been ripped apart and discarded by people who were supposed to take care of them. They were damaged goods. They would never get back what had been taken from them, but they could still find some measure of happiness if given half a chance.   
  
He turns onto his side to face Phil. The older man is still on his stomach with his face turned towards Clint, arms folded under his pillow. He looks younger in his sleep. The lines on his forehead are smoothed out and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes are shallower. The stern lines around his mouth are nowhere to be found. He looks content.  
  
Clint reaches out to brush his hand through Phil’s thinning hair and leans over to press gentle lips to Phil’s temple. He shifts on the bed, tucking one arm under his head and draping the other over Phil’s back. The steady rise and fall of Phil’s ribs eventually lulls him into a shallow sleep.


	3. The Special Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Natasha makes a point and there is a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has read this story and left kudos/comments. It is VERY much appreciated. :)
> 
> This is the end of this part of the story, but I have multiple one shots in progress where they bring Arrow home, he meets the Avengers, etc., so look for those in the near future! 
> 
> I'd also like to apologize for the delay with this chapter. I ended up in Maine over the weekend for a wedding and didn't have time to do any writing. 
> 
> EDITED AS OF 8/27.
> 
> Someone left me a very thought-provoking comment on my first version of this chapter that had me reconsidering a lot of what I'd written. The whole point of this story was for Phil and Clint to adopt a dog that needed a good home. Phil, Clint, and Arrow were supposed to be the focus, and I think I deviated from that with the first version of this chapter. The first version was about revenge, and that really wasn't supposed to be the point of this story. So I rewrote it and cut out Arrow's old owner almost entirely. If anyone's interested in reading that first version I've made it the "fourth" chapter in this story, but it won't be considered canon in the rest of the series.

The first week after the raid is so filled with writing reports, giving statements, processing evidence, interviewing suspects and cross-referencing records that Clint doesn’t have the time to worry about Arrow. Well, ok, he does worry about Arrow, but he doesn’t have time to work himself up about it. Instead, he focuses on the gang they apprehended and works to ensure that they all go to prison for a very long time.  
  
The Arrow updates from the ASPCA come everyday around five p.m. Sometimes it’s Dr. Bishop, but more often it’s an intern, a vet tech, or a volunteer. The calls are short and to the point: just the barest of facts about antibiotics taking effect and how well his leg is healing. It’s probably a good thing that they call Phil and not Clint, because Clint knows he would be pushing for more information and probably driving them all crazy.  
  
The second week is less hectic, for Clint at any rate. His part in the operation is done, but Phil is still compiling reports and conducting interviews before the suspects can be transferred to an actual prison. Clint has more time to worry about Arrow’s progress, and more time to consider the person responsible for the dog’s condition.  
  
He reads Jeremy Fergus’s file and feels only disgust for the rat-faced man. This isn’t the first time Mr. Fergus been charged with animal abuse, and there’s a laundry list of assault and battery charges along with illegal weapons and drug possession. Mr. Fergus, along with his associates, will be going to prison for a very long time.  
  
 _It’s not enough_ , Clint thinks. In his dreams he still sees the pile of dead dogs, their bodies bloodied and broken, and Arrow. Arrow crawling his way free of what should have been his grave. Arrow with his blood matted fur and tattered ear looking up at Clint with sad brown eyes and begging for some small measure of comfort and affection.  
  
Cold resolve settles in his veins like ice water flowing under a glacier. Phil is in a meeting with the director and won’t be around for another two hours. Plenty of time to do what needs to be done.  
  
Clint doesn’t take any more weapons than he usually carries. No knives, or arrows, nothing that will leave a mark. He ghosts through the halls into the bowels of the building until he reaches the detention level. He swipes his SHIELD badge in the reader and settles his hand on fingerprint scanner, typing his passcode into the keypad.  
  
The lock lets out an angry buzz. “ACCESS DENIED” flashes in red letters across the screen.  
  
Clint frowns, confused. He has the clearance to enter the wing, so why the hell isn’t his code working? He re-enters everything and gets the same result.  
  
“What the fuck?” He scowls at the lock, reluctant to try again. A third failed attempt to access the detention level will result in a security team coming to investigate, which means a report will be filed, and Phil will find out that Clint was trying to get at Fergus.  
  
“Phil said you might try something like this,” Natasha says.  
  
He doesn’t jump, but its a close thing. He turns to glare at her, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. She raises her eyebrows at him and mimics his pose.  
  
“Frankly, I thought you’d have tried sooner,” she continues.  
  
“You here to babysit me, Tasha?” he demands, vibrating with anger.  
  
“Yes.” She looks distinctly unimpressed, eyeing him like a parent with an unruly twelve year old. “What are you doing here, Clint?”  
  
“Nothing, apparently,” he sneers. He stalks towards the elevator and Natasha falls in step beside him. He punches the button for the fourteenth floor and watches the glowing numbers over the door as they begin to ascend.  
  
“You’re acting like a child,” she states.  
  
“Excuse me for being pissed with my partner for not trusting me,” he growls.  
  
“Rightly so,” she snaps. “Or were you just planning on having a friendly chat? Grow up, Clint. Hurting him won’t help your dog.”  
  
“Fuck you, Nat.” He hits the emergency stop button and whirls on her.  “You didn’t see him, or the other dogs that died. He deserves it, he deserves worse.”  
  
Natasha’s eyes flash and it’s the only warning he has before she slams him back agaisnt the wall with a hand fisted in his shirt. “Don’t talk to me about _deserving_ things, Barton,” she hisses. “No one ever gets what they _deserve_. What does or doesn’t happen to him isn’t important. Arrow is.”  
  
“I was doing it for Arrow.” He knows it's a mistake the instant the words are out of his mouth. Natasha’s eyes darken with rage and she slams him back again, cracking his head on the wall hard enough to send a burst of pain through his skull.  
  
“The fuck you were,” she sneers. “You were doing it to make yourself feel better about being helpless. Grow the fuck up, Barton, and get your priorities straight.”  
  
She releases him with a disgusted look and hits the emergency button a second time. The elevator jerks back into motion. Clint scowls at the floor and doesn’t move or speak, even after they reach the fourteenth floor. Natasha stalks away, fists clenched tight at her sides, sending junior agents scurrying to get out of her way.  
  
She’s right. And Phil was right to lock him out. He’s angry at them for being right, but more angry at himself. He wants to hide in Phil’s office, cling to his partner’s solid, steadying presence. He wants to scream at him. He wants to scream at Natasha, shove her nose into the crime scene photos of dead dogs and force her to see what he saw. He wants to rip Jeremy Fergus apart with his bare hands and use the pieces for target practice. He wants to bring his dog home and make sure no one ever hurts him again.  
  
The elevator doors slide shut and Clint hits the button for sub-basement 5, the firing range. He needs to settle, needs to think.  
  
The range is thankfully empty when he arrives. He bypasses his sleek black recurve and the fancy compound bow, fetching his _yumi_ and leather _yugake_.  
  
The wood and bamboo _yumi_ is over 8 feet tall unstrung, even strung the bow is taller than he is. It’s been months since he last used it, and he has to warm the wood with his hands before he can bend it enough to hook the string into place. He fits the _yugake_ over his right hand, the well-worn leather fitting snugly against his skin. It feels strange, unfamiliar and restricting compared to the shooting glove he normally uses.  
  
He moves into postion, and has to force himself to focus on remembering the proper form and the slow, meditative motions of _kyudo_ , Zen archery. It’s been almost a year since he’s done this, and the Japanese style of shooting is completely different from Western archery.  
  
He remembers the first time he ever saw _kyudo_. On leave in Osaka after an assignment, he and Coulson (he was still Coulson then) had ventured out to explore the city. They ended up at a Buddhist shrine in time to watch the _kyudo_ demonstration. Clint had opened his big mouth and ended up making an ass of himself in front of two dozen politely amused Buddhist monks and worshippers. Yamanaka Yuuko, a diminuitive Japanese woman who couldn’t have been younger than eighty, had plucked the bow out of his hand and shown him the proper way to use it.  
  
“ _Amerikkajin wa nintai jya nai_ ,” she told him. “ _Kyudo wa nintai ga hitsuyo to suru_.” Americans have no patience. Kyudo requires patience.  
  
He went back every day during their leave to learn more. At first only to prove that he could hit whatever he aimed at, no matter what kind of bow he was using. Later he discovered that he liked the careful, precise movements of the _hassetsu_. It was soothing, allowed him to let go of all other thoughts and concentrate only on the position of his body, the arrow on the string, the long draw and the hold, the release, and the quiet moment of contemplation once the arrow struck its target.  
  
It takes him four tries before he can perform the _hassestu_ correctly, long forgotten muscles loosening with each successful shot. It takes two more before he hits his target dead center with every shot.  
  
Phil finds him there several hours later. Clint's arms are shaking with the effort required to draw the long bow and sweat drips down his forehead. Phil waits until Clint has released the arrow and lowered his arms into _zanshin_ before approaching. Natasha had warned him about her talk with the archer and he isn’t sure what to expect.  
  
Clint looks up at him and Phil is relieved to see that under the lines of strain and exhaustion, he is calm and...not at ease, but something close, accepting.  
  
“I picked up a fresh bottle of baby oil last week. After dinner, I’ll give you a massage,” Phil says. “Your shoulders will hate you in the morning otherwise.” It’s as close as he’ll get to an apology. He doesn’t regret locking Clint out, but he does regret that it was necessary.  
  
The corner of Clint’s lips twitch up in a smile and he steps away from the shooting line to remove the _yugake_ and unstring the _yumi_. “That can’t be all you had in mind for that bottle, sir,” he leers, eyes dragging up and down Phil’s body.  
  
Phil rolls his eyes, fondly exasperated and relieved. “You’ll just have to wait and find out.”  
  
Clint returns his gear to his locker and follows Phil out to the car. They drive home in companionable quiet broken only by the soft jazz track playing on the radio and the ambient sounds of New York traffic.  
  
Once they enter their apartment, Clint starts to head for the bathroom, intent on a long shower to try and relieve the soreness that is settling into his shoulders. Phil catches his wrist and hands Clint his Starkphone. Bemused, Clint looks from Phil to the phone with a raised eyebrow.  
  
“There’s a message you need to hear,” Phil says.  
  
Clint looks from Phil to the phone and back again, trying to read something in the older man’s expression. Unfortunately, Phil is the king of passive looks and his face reveals nothing. That he waited until they left headquarters tells Clint that the message is personal, which means it probably has something to do with Arrow. That he waited until they got home could either be very good news, or very bad.  
  
Clint doesn’t give himself time to get nervous, raising the phone to his ear to listen.  
  
 _You have one saved message sent today at 4:56 p.m.  
  
“Hey Mr. Coulson, my name’s Abby and I’m a behaviorist with the ASPCA.” _  
  
Clint likes her immediately by the sound of her voice. Its low and sultry, but impossibly perky and cheerful at the same time. He can hear her smiling even through the phone as and it puts him at ease. No one could sound that happy when delivering bad news.  
  
 _“I worked with Arrow today and you’ll be super happy to know that he is definitely eligible for rehabilitation. He’s got a lot of work ahead of him, but I think he’s gonna be just fine. If you and Mr. Barton want to set up a meeting or talk about classes you can reach me at 555-5309.”_  
  
Clint leans back against the wall to keep his knees from giving out completely from relief. He returns the phone to its main screen and very deliberately sets it on the kitchen counter before looking over at his partner. Phil is smiling at him, soft and knowing.  
  
Clint grins wide and giddy as a kid on Christmas morning and has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. He pushes himself off the wall and ignores his shaking hands and aching shoulders as he grabs Phil by the tie and yanks him into a kiss. Its hard and desperately happy as he tries to convey all the good things bubbling up in his stomach through the contact. Phil returns the kiss in kind, grabbing the back of Clint’s neck and smiling against his lips. Their bodies flush together from lips to knees, Phil pushes Clint back against the wall and cups his face, thumb brushing over the beginnings of stubble on his jaw. With arousal sending sparks over his nerve endings, Clint pulls Phil closer with an arm around his back, grinding their growing erections together with a sharp moan.  
  
They break apart to breath, panting slightly into each other’s mouth and grinning like fools.  
  
“I already talked to Abby,” Phil says, his voice low and caressing. “And the director. We’re meeting her and Arrow at the shelter at noon on Thursday.”

Clint blinks, stunned. The whole reason Phil keeps a sofa in his office is so he has somewhere to sleep when he pulls all-nighters. He works a minimum of sixty hours a week and usually has to be reminded that he is a mere mortal who requires breaks for food and sleep. The only good reason to miss work in Phil's opinion is medical leave. Agent Philip J. Coulson of SHIELD _voluntarily_ taking time off is unheard of.  
  
Clint pushes away from the wall and turns to pin Phil in his place, capturing his mouth in a searing kiss. “You are a fantastic human being,” he murmurs, moving his lips down to Phil’s throat and the the sensitive spot just under his jawline.  
  
Phil groans, throwing his head back and tangling his hand in Clint’s hair. “Just remember that next time there’s a Supernanny marathon,” he pants.  
  
Clint chuckles and steps back. “Don’t push your luck, babe. I’m only human.” He catches Phil’s hand and pulls him towards the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh yeah, blatant cameo by Miss Abby Sciuto of NCIS because I adore her.
> 
> Kyudo terms:  
> yumi- bow (a very, very long one. Seriously. The one I used in college was over 6 ft tall, and the technique for drawing a yumi is completely different from a standard western bow.)
> 
> yugake- a type of shooting glove used in practicing kyudo. (in kyudo you pull the string back using a notch on the yugake between your thumb and index finger instead of the index and middle finger.)
> 
> hassetsu- eight stages of shooting. (Kyudo is very much a meditative activity and each step is important. 
> 
> zanshin- the last stage of hassetsu, the archer holds position after loosing the arrow
> 
> Anyone who wants to read more about kyudo can go here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ky%C5%ABd%C5%8D
> 
> Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that the idea for this 'verse came from Hawkeye #1 that just came out last week. Go read it, it is glorious. Even if it doesn't have Phil in it.


	4. Chapter 3 version 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> READ THIS FIRST! 
> 
> I revised chapter 3 and replaced it. This isn't really a fourth chapter, just the first version of chapter 3 in case anyone's interested in reading it and comparing it to the revised one. I repeat, this is Not a new chapter. The new version of chapter three is Very Different from the first one, so I'd recommend you go back and read that first. 
> 
> A word of caution, there are references to child abuse in this chapter, but nothing explicit.

The first week after the raid is so filled with writing reports, giving statements, processing evidence, interviewing suspects and cross-referencing records that Clint doesn’t have the time to worry about Arrow. Well, ok, he does worry about Arrow, but he doesn’t have time to work himself up about it. Instead, he focuses on the gang they apprehended and works to ensure that they all go to prison for a very long time. The Arrow updates from the ASPCA come everyday around five p.m. Sometimes it’s Dr. Bishop, but more often it’s an intern or a vet tech or a volunteer. The calls are short and almost curt and it’s probably a good thing that they call Phil and not Clint, because Clint would be pushing for more information and probably be driving them all crazy. Three weeks pass with sporadic updates on Arrow’s progress. He’s healing well and they’ve scheduled his session with the behaviorist for the following week.   
  
Clint finds it to be both ironic and appropriate that Arrow’s evaluation falls on the same day that his previous owner is scheduled to be interviewed. He spends two hours on the range, trying to calm his nerves and finally gives up when it doesn’t help. Arrow’s previous owner, a rat-faced man with slick blonde hair, sits across from Phil and Sitwell in the interview room and demands to be released. Clint watches from the observation room, hands flexing into fists at his sides, jaw clenched tight. Phil had blocked his access to the holding cells within minutes of their return to base and only allowed Clint to observe the interviews after confiscating his weapons.  Part of Clint understands Phil’s reasoning. SHIELD maybe a covert agency and they can get away with bending certain rules in regards to holding suspects indefinitely, but brutalizing prisoners for the sake of vengeance is not one of those rules.   
  
“Y’all ain’t got no right to hold me,” the rat faced man sneers, slapping a cuffed hand on the metal table. “I aint done nothin’ wrong. I want my goddamn dog back, too. You tightassed feds think you can get away with takin’ a man’s property?”  
  
Phil ignores the tirade, flipping through his file as though the man hasn’t said a word. Sitwell reclines in his chair and looks amused. A soft click to his right alerts Clint to Natasha’s arrival. He glances over as she joins him by the the viewing window and feels a grim thrill of satisfaction when he notes that she is carrying at least four knives, her hand gun, and one of her Widow’s Bite wrist bands. She brushes against his side and gives him a predatory smile. Clint may not be allowed near the prisoners, but no one said anything about Natasha. The Black Widow had plenty of experience in inflicting pain without leaving marks.   
  
“Your dog was badly injured, Mr. Fergus,” Phil stated, cutting off the man’s ranting. “How do you explain that?”   
  
“Stupid mutt slipped his leash,” Fergus snapped. “Got hit by a truck.”   
  
Phil gave the man a cold, unimpressed look, and slipped several photos out of his folder, sliding them across the table one by one with carefully controlled movements. Fergus glances at the pictures and then away.   
  
“A truck?” Sitwell drawls. “Really? A truck dislocated your dog’s leg, broke his tail in two places, bite out chunks of his skin, and ripped his ear apart?”  
  
“I suppose a truck is also responsible for the other scars, as well.” Phil added two more photos to the spread.   
  
“Ain’t none of your fuckin’ business what I do with my fuckin’ property,” Fergus sneered. “What’s it to you, anyway?”  
  
“Are you aware that dog fighting is illegal in the state of New York?” Phil asked, folding his hands on the table, every inch the inconspicuous, nonthreatening suit.  
  
Fergus’s mouth twisted in a mocking smirk. “Whattya gonna do? Throw me in prison? Fine me? I’ll be out in less than a year, fed.”  
  
“Oh no, Mr. Fergus. You’ll be going to prison for a very long time,” Phil corrected him with a bland look, as though discussing stock prices.   
  
“We’ve got more than enough evidence linking you to the weapons we found in the warehouse,” Sitwell says, flipping through his own file. “Along with several open investigations with the NYPD.”  
  
“You’re looking at a minimum of twenty years,” Phil says. “I only want you to consider what happens to guys like you, in prison. Guys who hurt the ones who can’t fight back.” He glances at Sitwell. “You heard what happened to the priest, right? The one who was raping little boys?”  
  
Fergus’s face went white and Clint thought the man was about to pass out. “Hey, hey! I ain’t no freakin’ pedophile! I ain’t never touched a little kid!”   
  
“Ah, but the other inmates don’t know that, do they?” Phil muses, leaning back in his seat, as casual as you please. “The right words in the right ears will make your time in prison somewhate . . . challenging.”  
  
Clint would be lying if he said he wasn’t incredibly aroused by this. The casual threat in Phil’s even tones sends a thrill down his spine.   
  
Fergus looks sick with terror, staring between Phil and Sitwell with open horror. “Y-you can’t do that!”  
  
Phil stands, gathering the pictures back into the folder, completely unconcerned. Clint can tell by the set of Sitwell’s shoulders that the younger agent is amused and trying not to show it. He glances over at Natasha and sees her eyeing Phil as though she’s never seen him before. Clint bites back a grin, his hands relaxing just a little as he watches Phil with open pride.   
  
“I most certainly can, Mr. Fergus,” Phil says. “I just haven’t decided if I will.” He finishes collecting his photos and heads for the door. “Agent Sitwell will escort you back to holding.”  
  
Clint turns away from the window as Sitwell escorts Fergus out. Natasha looks up at him with a raised eyebrow. He smirks, knowing. She’s only been with SHIELD for a few months, still a probationary agent, and this is her first time seeing Phil when he’s feeling viscious.   
  
“I see why you like him,” she says, with an approving glint in her eyes.  
  
Clint shrugs, aiming for nonchalance. “He has his moments.”  
  
“So glad you both approve,” Phil drawls from the door. “Agent Romanov, I would like to remind you that you don’t have the clearance to be in this area.”  
  
Natasha doesn’t react beyond folding her arms over her chest. “Understood, sir.” There is genuine respect in the ‘sir,’ unlike the past few weeks where she’d only said it out of deference to his higher rank. “I thought Agent Barton would appreciate the moral support.”  
  
Phil looks between them, skeptical, but just shakes his head and motions for them to follow him. They fall in step behind him on the way to the stairwell. Clint takes a moment to give Phil’s ass an appreciative look, ignoring Natasha’s smirk. The Look Phil casts him over his shoulder says that he knows exactly what’s going on behind him, and while he appreciates being ogled, they are at work and they are professionals. Any plans Clint has will have to wait until they leave the office.   
  
Natasha leaves them on the eighth floor, heading for the gym and her standing sparring session with Agent Hill. Phil catches Clint’s eye and leads him up to his office. Curious, Clint closes the door behind them and settles on the sofa across from his desk with a questioning look.   
  
Phil sets his StarkPhone on the desk, his personal one, not the SHIELD issue, and sets it on speaker before playing back his voicemail.   
_  
You have one saved message sent today at 4:56 p.m.  
  
“Hey Mr. Coulson, my name’s Abby and I’m a behaviorist working for the ASPCA.” _  
  
Clint likes the behaviorist immediately by the sound of her voice. Low and sultry, but impossibly perky and cheerful at the same time. He can hear her smiling even through the speaker phone as and it puts him at ease. No one could sound that happy when delivering bad news.  
  
 _“I worked with Arrow today and you’ll be super happy to know that he is definitely eligible for rehabilitation. He’s got a lot of work ahead of him, but I think he’s gonna be just fine. If you and Mr. Barton want to set up a meeting or talk about classes you can reach me at 555-5309.”_  
  
Phil flicked a finger over the screen of the phone, returning it to the main menu before looking up at Clint, a soft smile on his face.   
  
Relief hits Clint like a tidal wave. He’s glad he’s sitting down or else his knees might have given way on him. He grins at Phil, wide and giddy as a kid on Christmas morning and has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. He pushes himself up and ignores his shaking hands as he crosses the room. He grabs Phil by the tie and kisses him, hard and desperately happy and trying to convey all the good things bubbling up in his stomach through the contact. Phil returns the kiss in kind, grabbing the back of Clint’s neck and smiling as he nips at his lips.   
  
They break apart, but not too far, panting slightly into each other’s mouth and grinning like fools. Clint had his doubts before, but now he knows that Phil is just as excited as he is.   
  
“I already talked to Abby,” Phil says, his voice low and caressing. “And the director. We’re meeting her and Arrow at the shelter on Thursday at noon.”   
  
Clint blinks at Phil, stunned. The whole reason Phil kept a sofa in his office was so he would have somewhere to sleep when he stayed late. Before Clint, he worked an average of eighty hours a week and usually had to be reminded that he was a mere mortal who required breaks for food and sleep. He’d gotten better about going home at night since Clint moved in with him, but he still managed to work over sixty hours a week and only took time off for injuries and enforced leave.  
  
Clint shakes his head and hauls Phil in for another kiss. “You are a fantastic human being,” he murmurs against the older man’s mouth.   
  
Phil smirks. “I know. Just remember that next time there’s a Supernanny marathon.”  
  
Clint chuckles and pulls away. “Don’t push your luck, babe. I’m only human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I like the revised one better, but I'd really like to hear what other people think.


End file.
